LITMIR.BIZ

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rigid segregation of the sexes. Take France, for example. A French woman visiting the mothers’ room in, say, the Louvre, would be very unlikely to feel threatened by the presence of a man shaving. Though, I suppose any woman who’s not used to being around men…a woman, say, who’s never watched a man shave…never been kissed, as the saying goes…’

      Never been kissed. Was he trying to insult her? She hissed in a breath through her teeth. ‘Look, all I want to know is if you found my envelope. If you didn’t…’

      He put on a bland expression. ‘I think I might be able to help if you could be more specific. For instance, if you could give me some idea of the letter’s likely contents…’

      ‘What?’ She stared at him in incredulity. ‘Are you for real? Look, why can’t you just say—?’

      She broke off, shaking her head in disbelief as he bent to splash his face, his composure unruffled.

      Her heart started to thud. He must have found it. Why else was he being so obstructive? She breathed deeply for several seconds, wondering how to go about extracting the truth from him. Often she could sense things in people, but in his case she was aware only of an implacable resistance. Despair gripped her. What was left for her to try? An appeal to him as a human being?

      He reached for a paper towel and turned to her, patting his face dry.

      ‘Are you sure—absolutely sure—you didn’t find it?’ Despite an attempt to sound calm she knew the plea in her voice revealed her desperation, loud and clear.

      He crumpled the paper towel and dropped it in the bin. Then he slipped a purple silk tie under his collar and tied it, practice in the fluid movements of his lean, tanned fingers. At the same time he turned to appraise her with his dark, intelligent gaze. Drops of moisture sparkled on his black lashes.

      ‘It’s beginning to sound like a very important letter.’

      ‘It is. That is—’ She checked herself. The more she talked up the importance of the letter, the more likely he would be to read it if he found it. Just supposing he hadn’t already. ‘No, no, well, it’s not really. It’s only important to me. Not to anyone else.’

      He nodded in apparent understanding, his sardonic face suddenly grave. Perhaps she’d misjudged him. Perhaps he could even be sympathetic. Although, how safe was it to trust him? If he could only be serious for a minute…

      She watched him shrug on his jacket, then slip the leather case into his briefcase, all the while continuing her theme of playing the letter down. ‘It’s nothing really. Just a small—private thing.’

      ‘Ah.’ His dark lashes flickered down. ‘A love letter.’

      ‘No,’ she snapped, goaded. ‘Not a love letter. Look, why can’t you be serious? Why can’t you give me a straight answer?’

      He sighed. ‘All right. How about this one? I haven’t found your letter. You can search me if you like.’ He spread his hands in invitation, offering her the pockets of his jacket, his trousers, then as she glared at him in disbelief he thrust his briefcase at her. ‘Go on. Search.’

      As if she could. She wanted to snatch the briefcase from him and whack him with it. But even without touching it, she knew there was nothing of hers inside. He was tormenting her, when all he’d had to do was to tell her in the first place…

      ‘Do you know,’ she said, an angry tremor in her low voice, ‘you are a very rude and aggravating man?’

      ‘I do know,’ he said ruefully, wickedness in the dark eyes beneath his black lashes. ‘I’m ashamed of myself.’

      She felt her blood pressure rise as he moved closer until his broad chest was a bare few inches from her breasts. The clean male scent of him, the masculine buzz of his aura, plunged her normally tranquil pulse into chaos. She became suffocatingly conscious of the nearness of the vibrant, muscled body lurking beneath his clothes.

      The dark gaze dwelling on her face grew sensual and turned her blood into a molten, racing torrent. ‘And do you know that you’re a very uptight little chick? You should learn to relax.’

      His sexy mouth was uncomfortably near, and, involuntarily, her own dried. She glowered at him, anger rendering her unable to breathe or speak.

      He flicked her cheek. ‘I’ll let you know if I find your letter.’ His bold gaze travelled down her throat to the neck of her shirt, then back. ‘You know, with those eyes your name should be Violet.’ He turned and strolled to the door, and while she stood there, the cool touch of his fingers still burning on her skin, it swung shut behind him. Then the enormity of what he’d said hit her like a train. The incredible words resounded in her ears.

      He knew her name.

      He’d known it all along. That had been no coincidence.

      But how could he know it? How, unless he’d found her letter?

      CHAPTER THREE

      SOPHY strode along the gallery to the children’s clinic. Connor O’Brien’s door was closed, but she had to steel herself to walk past it and breathe the air he was infecting with his intolerable masculine game-playing. He was probably in there now, gloating over her DNA profile.

      Although, what could it possibly mean to him? What could he do with it? Apart from post it on the Internet. Take it to the papers. Contact Elliott…

      She shut her eyes and tried to breathe calmly. The man could be a blackmailer. He looked bad, with that mocking dark gaze and that sardonic mouth. Just remembering his refusal to take her seriously made her blood boil all over again. She wished she’d said something clever and cutting enough to douse that insolent amusement in his eyes.

      She used her pass key to unlock the clinic, relieved that neither Cindy, their receptionist, nor Bruce, the paediatrician, had arrived yet, praying that against the odds someone wonderful had found the letter and popped it through the mail slot. But no such luck. In her office she plunged into a frenzied search, her desk, her drawers, all around the children’s table and chairs, the armchairs for parents, only confirming what she already knew—she’d lost it after she’d left yesterday.

      Millie was her last resort. She’d spent a good hour in there yesterday, helping her friend pack up her files. Fingers crossed, she phoned her, but again her luck was out. Amidst all her files and books, Millie had been in too much of an uproar to find anything, let alone something so ordinary and unobtrusive as an envelope.

      She slumped down in her chair. Perhaps she should alert Elliott, but she wasn’t ready to give up yet. He’d seemed so paranoid at the idea of the news getting out. Not that she could blame him altogether. Her existence had come as a complete shock to him. She pitied him for what he must have gone through when he found out. Anyone—anyone would have been upset.

      She tried to crush down a nasty feeling at how he might react when he knew the letter was out of her hands. Then, with some relief, she remembered he said he’d be out of town for a week, and brightened a little. At least that gave her a bit of breathing space. He might not have even received his copy yet.

      And, honestly, what was the worst that could happen to him if the news got out? Thousands of people had given up their children for adoption, for all sorts of reasons. It was hardly such a shocking scandal anymore. His wife should be capable of understanding something that had happened twenty-three years ago.

      And it wasn’t as if she wasn’t an independent adult. She hoped she’d made it absolutely crystal clear that it wouldn’t cost him anything to invite her into his life—their lives. Only a bit of friendship. Not a relationship, exactly. She knew she couldn’t expect that.

      But there was no denying her disappointment. Elliott’s utter dismay when she’d made that first contact had been almost tangible. He’d tried to disguise it with his smooth manners, but she’d been able to sense how he truly felt. In the subsequent meetings, in the coffee shop and the bar, he’d seemed more

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